The Accidental Lawman (5 page)

He had been about to leave when Amelia Hawthorne walked right into him. Had he really knocked her off balance, or had she feigned the fall?

Why had she chosen to enter the bank at that moment? Was it by chance, or was there more to it than that? Why was she out running errands in the middle of a dust storm?

As much as he wanted to deny it, he suddenly couldn’t help but wonder if she might have been involved in the holdup. Was she an accomplice? A distraction?

It was hard to believe those guileless green eyes could hide anything, but he’d be a fool to be distracted by a woman’s eyes, no matter how innocent.

Hank stepped inside the hollow emptiness of the building still filled with crates, his printing press and his dreams. His eyes watered the minute he inhaled the remnants of strong lye soap and incense and he wondered if the smell left behind by the laundry was ever going to dissipate.

He wanted to start writing. He
needed
to start writing. He’d already planned the initial one-page edition that would be distributed free to everyone residing in and around Glory. An introductory edition with a full-page story of the robbery and a call for advertisers on the back.

He’d already decided on a headline: Lone Robber Attempts Bank Heist.

Now he wasn’t so certain.

As editor in chief and sheriff, he had a duty to the townsfolk to ferret out the truth. Even if that meant discovering things he’d rather not know about Amelia Hawthorne.

A
loud knock on her door woke Amelia just as dawn’s first light crept across the morning sky. Hoping it was Evan, she slipped into the old plaid robe that had been her father’s and hurried through the house.

It wasn’t Evan standing on her front porch, but Ready Bernard, a cowhand who worked on the Rocking e Ranch a few miles outside of town. Ready was a robust black man who was quick to smile but who said little. The minute she saw him, she knew why he was there.

Rebekah Ellenberg, Joe’s wife, was expecting her second child any day. Amelia had successfully delivered their first, Orson, a little over a year ago.

“Mr. Ellenberg says you should come now. I’ll wait and ride back with you,” Ready offered.

She knew Joe Ellenberg would refuse to leave his wife’s side and, rather than make him a man short, she suggested, “You head on back. I’ll ride out to the ranch by myself. Tell them I’m on the way.”

Ready lingered a moment, debating before he tugged the brim of his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll tell them.”

She bade him farewell and closed the door. Ten minutes later she was dressed, her medical bag packed. When she led Sweet Pickle out of her stall, she discovered her mare was lame.

“Oh, Sweet Pickle, why now?”

There was no sign of Ready, no way to call him back. Amelia tied the ribbons of her straw hat beneath her chin and grabbed her medical bag.

Big Mick Robinson, blacksmith and owner of the livery stable, had loaned her a horse before, so she headed for his place. She kept up her pace, taking care not to trip on the uneven walk. A few yards down Main, a man crossed over to her side of the street. She recognized him in an instant. His bowler hat was a dead giveaway.

Since their brief encounter at Laura Foster’s yesterday, she was bound and determined to keep her distance. Now here he was, hurrying down the boardwalk, walking directly toward her.

She knew a moment’s panic and thought about heading home, but the Ellenbergs were depending on her. Besides the Lord must keep putting Hank Larson in her path for a reason. Perhaps it would be better to find out what, if anything, he’d discovered about a second holdup man.

He stopped when he reached her and doffed his hat. “Miss Hawthorne.”

“Mr. Larson.” She frowned. “Or should I call you Sheriff Larson?”

“Please. No.” He centered his poor hat again. “What are you doing out this early?”

“I’m on my way to the livery stable to borrow a horse.” She started walking again.

He did an about-face and fell into step beside her. “I’d be happy to loan you mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, but unnecessary.” She reached up to brush a stray lock of hair away from her eyelashes. “I really need to hurry. I’m needed at a nearby ranch.”

“An errand of mercy, no doubt. Then I insist on driving you. My carriage is already hitched up. It’s right outside my office building.”

“I’m sure you’re far too busy. You have a paper to publish.”
And outlaws to track down.

“I can’t very well put out a newspaper unless there’s something to write about. As you so succinctly put it two days ago in the bank, a wiser man might have realized there was no news around here.”

“Have you found out any more about the robbery? About the man Laura Foster and I
may
have seen outside the bank?” She tried to sound as if she were only making casual conversation.

“Not yet. I’ve been asking around, though.”

She nearly tripped. He grabbed her arm just above the elbow to steady her. Amelia glanced over, met his blue eyes. She felt an immediate blush creep up her cheeks. Instantly, he let go.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said.

She hurried on toward the livery. Time was of the essence. Anything could happen to Rebekah Ellenberg and her unborn child while she, Amelia, was trudging down the street with the “sheriff” trailing along beside her.

They reached the huge barn fronting Main Street, but the double doors were still closed.

“Mick!” she called out, expecting a response from inside. “Open up, Mick. It’s Amelia.”

Mick Robinson was usually up well before dawn, shoeing horses or tending to stock.

“Looks like you’ll have to take me up on my offer,” Hank Larson said.

Lord, I know You are never far from me.

She stared at the locked barn doors in frustration and then walked around to look over the fence bordering the lot. There was no sign of Mick anywhere.

Perhaps this was why God had sent Hank Larson to her this morning—the man appeared to be her only option.

“I take it this is an emergency…” Hank paused, waiting for an answer.

Finally she nodded. “It is. There’s a baby on the way. I need to be there to deliver it.”

His brow furrowed something fierce. His gaze became harsh and cold.

“You’re a…” He appeared to be having trouble saying the word.

“Midwife.” She nodded. Then she watched him go as still as a stone.

I should have known
. Hank stared at Amelia. He’d heard she was an apothecary. He assumed people went to her to patch up minor scrapes and scratches.

She is a midwife
.

But she wasn’t a bona fide physician.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Apparently he couldn’t hide his disgust. “Nothing. We’d best get moving.”

As they walked back up the street toward his office, he struggled with the bleak nightmare of a childbirth gone terribly wrong. The memory was as vibrant and alive as when it happened a year ago.

“There’s no surgeon nearby? No
real
doctor?”

She broke stride and turned to meet his eyes. “
Real
doctor?”

“Yes.”

“My father was a
real
doctor, if by that you mean a
man
with a medical degree. He taught me everything he knew.” She recalled sitting beside her father as he quizzed her on anything and everything that would come to mind.

They’d reached the compact black buggy outside his newspaper office. A black gelding was harnessed between the traces.

“If you care to loan me your rig, I’m perfectly capable of driving myself out to the Rocking e.”

“I’m certain you are, but I’d prefer taking you.”

He’d spent the remainder of yesterday introducing himself around and getting to know the store owners along Main Street. Late in the day he had finally wandered into the Silver Slipper Saloon. In deference to his new position as sheriff, he asked for a sarsaparilla.

After a few minutes of conversation, Denton Fairchild, the barkeep, mentioned a group of young hotheads had been in and out of town the past month.

“They’re a bad lot,” Denton told him. “As a matter of fact, I know one kid who’s been in here with them more than once. Everybody knows Evan Hawthorne’s a troublemaker.”

It struck Hank as odd that if
everyone
in town knew Amelia’s brother was a troublemaker, not a soul except the bartender had mentioned it.

Truth be told, he’d rather do anything than drive her out to some ranch to practice her trade on some innocent woman and her unborn babe, but the journey would give him the perfect opportunity to ask about her brother. There was always the chance she might let something
slip. After hearing about her brother, his suspicion that she might somehow be involved had only deepened.

Amelia paused beside the rig for no more than a heartbeat before Hank reached for her heavy medical bag and tossed it into the buggy as if it weighed no more than a feather.

She reached for the side of the carriage, put her foot on the small iron step and pulled herself up. She was in the act of tucking her skirt neatly around her when she glanced over and realized he was staring. His expressive eyes were shuttered, hiding his thoughts. He hurried round the buggy and climbed in on the opposite side.

“I’ve upset you somehow,” she said as they headed out of town.

He glanced over. She watched him closely from beneath the wide brim of her straw bonnet.

“It’s nothing. Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we?” He kept his hands steady on the reins and followed her directions. They turned onto what appeared to be a well-traveled road leading out of town. Beyond them, the land opened up and the horizon rolled away beneath the sky for as far as the eye could see.

She thought back over their conversation as they’d hurried down the street.

“Am I to understand you think male physicians are better skilled at delivering babies than midwives?” she asked.

He remained silent, staring down the road. His expression had grown so dark, so closed, that she wondered if she really wanted to hear what he was thinking.

Her father had warned her of the prejudice against women doctors. Ninety percent of his class at the university were against having women students among their
number. But he was convinced she had a God-given talent for medicine and could do as much good as someone whose only qualification was a piece of paper.

She thought of all the babies she’d delivered in the years since her father had passed away. Remembered how hard she had prayed over mothers struggling to bring forth healthy children and how thankful she was for God’s help and blessing each and every time she heard a newborn’s first cry.

“I may not be a physician, but I know a woman’s body better than any male doctor. What’s more, I know a woman’s heart. And I never forget that I am but an instrument of God’s will. He’s the one who guides my hands.”

“What happens when there are complications? What happens when it’s too late to call a doctor?”

She thought of all the things that could and sometimes did go wrong during childbirth. Her father taught her to recognize the four orders of labor: natural, tedious, preternatural and complex. Most babies presented naturally, but there were those occasions where she knew she would need all the knowledge her father had drilled into her, along with all the confidence and faith she could muster.

“There is no
doctor
to call, Mr. Larson. We are out here on our own.”

He shocked her by abruptly changing the subject.

“I hear your brother runs with a wild crowd,” he said.

Suddenly her insides were reeling. She hadn’t once mentioned Evan to him. She was sure of it.

She knew so little about Evan, so little about his friends, she didn’t know what to say.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I have my sources. I was asking folks if they knew
anything about the robbery. Someone mentioned that he keeps company with unsavory characters.”

“Were you asking as a newspaperman, or as sheriff?”

He paused, adjusted the reins. “Both.”

She fell silent.

“You never mentioned you had a brother,” he said.

“I…why would I? When would I have had the opportunity?”

“When I was at your house after the holdup, when you put ointment on my cut—which by the way is already healing nicely—”

“I noticed.”

“You could have said something about having a brother who lived there, as well.”

“There was really no reason to mention my brother.” She tried not to sound defensive.

“When did you see him last?”

“Who?” She stalled, knowing very well what he meant.

“Your brother, Amelia.”

“Not long ago.”
Please, please don’t ask for more details
. “Turn here,” she said, indicating the entrance to the ranch. “I hope we’re in time.”

“Have you delivered many children?” Again, he deftly caught her off guard by changing the subject. She detected a chill in his tone.

“More than I can count. You sound very harsh. Why is that?”

This was far safer ground than talk of Evan, or so she thought until he replied, “My wife and child died at the hands of an incompetent midwife.”

Hank knew he’d shocked her. Amelia seemed to be gathering her thoughts as she stared at her hands, fingers
knotted together in her lap. It was a good mile from the border of the ranch to the house. They rode in silence for a few minutes.

“How did you know she was incompetent?” Amelia finally asked.

Hank took his eyes off the road long enough to glance in her direction.

“I had no idea until it was too late that the woman was inebriated that night. She locked me out of the room. My son was stillborn. My wife bled to death.” He took a shuddering breath, wished the words hadn’t conjured the images. “I didn’t get to tell her goodbye.”

They were closing the last few yards to the front of Joe Ellenberg’s ranch house when Amelia said, “Sometimes, God—”

Hank cut her off. “I don’t want to hear anything about God.” He’d heard every platitude.
It’s God’s will. Trust in the Lord. The Lord giveth. They are in a better place.
He didn’t care what God wanted. How was he supposed to trust a God who took His wrath out on helpless women and unborn babies?

“I can assure you I never drink spirits,” she said softly.

Plummeted into despair, he ignored her and forced himself to concentrate on the scene unfolding before him. He saw things through a writer’s eye, a writer’s mind.

He saw not only the long, log home that appeared on the other side of a knoll, but also the smoke curling out of a chimney in a detached building at the end of a covered dogtrot. He saw a woman who looked to be in her late forties watching from the overhang of a covered porch. She appeared to be waiting anxiously to greet them.

She waved with one hand and clung to the hand of
the toddler beside her with the other. A little boy, a little over a year old. Hank even imagined what the woman must be thinking.

Where have you been, Amelia. Hurry. Hurry. We need you.

So dependent. So trusting of the local midwife.

Amelia Hawthorne seemed no more than a girl herself. As the buggy neared the house, he saw the woman on the porch had clear, bright eyes. Her plain hair was pulled straight back into a knot at her nape. The skin around her eyes was deeply etched with lines, as was her brow. She was rail thin beneath a serviceable skirt and calico blouse. Her eyes were shadowed with all the fears and concern she could not hide.